LIAM’S P.O.V.
The courtyard reeked of sweat, blood, and raw fury. Just how I liked it.
Thirty warriors stood in uneven rows, panting, bruised, and barely holding their stances. Most were werewolves. Strong. Loyal. Capable.
But none of them were Lycaon.
I paced between them, the heavy silence broken only by the sound of crunching gravel beneath my boots and the occasional groan from someone too slow to recover from the last drill.
“Again,” I said, voice low but sharp.
Groans rippled through the formation. One of the warriors, barely nineteen and still baby-faced, dared to speak.
“Alpha, we’ve done this set five times.”
I turned slowly. “And you’ve failed it five times. Try for six.”
He paled. Smart choice.
The others snapped into formation again, this time with more urgency. Arago
